


The Head That Wears The Crown

by its_pronounced_wiener_slave



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Blind Character, Blindness, Blow Jobs, Canon Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Love, M/M, Marking, Melodrama, Moral Dilemmas, No Lube, Older Ignis, Oral Sex, Romantic Angst, Semi-Public Sex, Sumata, and will eventually feature other ships as needed, blind Ignis POV, canonverse, tags to be added as they become relevant, will fairly quickly feature smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-10-29 06:05:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10847994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_pronounced_wiener_slave/pseuds/its_pronounced_wiener_slave
Summary: Ignis has a single dream that comes to pass which simply cannot; it's the one dream that is doomed from the start, and yet here they stand. Together. But for how long will the conscience allow...





	1. Angelgard

**Author's Note:**

> **This will be a multi chapter exploring a version of Noctis that chooses love over Ascension. That is the basic framework. Some chapters will change POV. 
> 
> If you feel so inclined, please consider reading [this oneshot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9286040) about the decade during which Noctis is absent, as it is technically a prequel that may occasionally be referenced. It will add to the experience, it is not required to understand it.

It’s as balmy an evening as ever in Lestallum, to Ignis’ recollection, as he deftly lifts the single paper bag waiting at the usual corner of the produce vendor’s display, bidding him thanks before carefully turning to make his way back to the Leville and an undoubtedly famished Cid. The parcel is of respectable weight, though not too much for carrying the distance he’s yet to go, and while he’s come to trust the merchant to fill his weekly order with due specificity, Ignis will still take it apart piece by piece upon his return to his rooms; counting and identifying each item, appraising them with bare hands to assess quality and size, before rationing everything out for the week and settling in to prepare dinner for himself and his housemate-by-necessity.

This route is a familiar one. He’s tread it so many times in the past decade that he could make the trek safely in his sleep, let alone with his deeply compromised sight, so the cane he’d held fast to in order to maintain some degree of competence and independence had long since become a forgotten thing, more often than not. While still of use to him in uncharted places, he now has Lestallum mapped so fastidiously in his mind’s eye that when coupled with his training and sharpened senses, the instrument only served to make him feel _more_ disabled, as opposed to less.

His footfalls are light as he makes his way round the corner from the market and down the long stretch of alley that opens before the Leville. It has been a fairly typical day, never mind the incongruity in terminology, that has given way to a stereotypically boisterous evening, the sounds of which Ignis has grown both fond of and accustomed to over time despite his initial frustration in needing his ears to compensate for the lack in his eyes.  

There’s a gravelly noise, a shift in the dirt nearby that has him contemplating a half turn for a fraction of a second, before an identifying hand descends delicately to his left shoulder from behind. He recognizes the touch immediately, as is purposed by the owner of the hand.

“Aranea,” he offers by way of greeting, preceding her own salutation thanks primarily to impeccable powers of perception.

“Sharp as ever, I see,” she says with a voice gilded by a smile one needn’t have eyes in order to confirm. Ignis turns fully, facing her, wearing a gentle grin all his own.

“But of course. A necessity if one is to keep up with the most celebrated daemon huntress this side of the apocalypse.”

She laughs warmly in response as Ignis lifts a hand to adjust the visor at the bridge of his nose.

“I _think_ you’re confusing me with mini Big Guy. Besides, since when did you start caring about crap like that?” Aranea settles effortlessly into that unique shade of irreverence that Ignis finds peculiarly comforting.

“I’m exposed, it seems. I’d hoped you’d be so flattered as to fail to call my bluff,” he replies with heavy sarcasm, the bag in his arm rustling as his hand descends about it again.

“Very funny, you never lack for sense of humor I’ll give you that.” She touches her hand to the bag, or so Ignis assumes, as the pressure and crinkle of the paper draws his unscarred eye downward. “On your way back to the hotel?”

“Ah, yes, actually. I’ve quite a bit to prepare before tomorrow.”

“You’ll be out near Hammerhead again, right?”

Ignis nods, readjusting the bag on his hip.

“Correct. And heaven knows if I don’t get things ready for Cid prior to departure, he’ll—”

Aranea’s hand is at his shoulder suddenly, heavy, squeezing reassurances.

“I’ll look after him, Iggy, don’t worry about it. Just be careful, as usual.”

The hand falls away, and Ignis bows his head in grateful acquiescence.

“Always.”

\---

Ignis lives on the first available floor of the Leville with the ever aging Cid Sophiar, an arrangement he saw to with the hotel proprietor once the would-be mechanic’s condition worsened several years prior. Though he left the safety of the basic suite with declining regularity, the proximity to exits and other necessities as well as the minimization of stair climbing were paramount for Cid’s comfort and survival, or so Ignis put it to the owner, reminding him in no uncertain terms how grateful his King would be upon his return that he’d been so dutiful as to serve not only the least of his people, but those fighting tirelessly in his absence to defend them from grave dangers.

As expected, he relinquished key cards to a suite meeting Ignis’ exact specifications.

He slides the key through the reader on the door and opens it to the sound of shuffling feet approaching from the opposite end of the apartment. The floor plan is an open one; a single bedroom attached to a living area with futon, where Ignis stays, and a cutout between them which houses a kitchenette as well as access to their single bathroom. It is a far cry from Insomnian extravagance, but it is more than most have in recent times, and Ignis is grateful for it.

Cid, on the other hand, could find fault in a newborn chocobo and often made a point to do just that on a near daily basis.

“That damn kid was thunderin’ up and down these halls again while you were out,” he gripes immediately, drawing near to Ignis’ left side even as he removes his shoes and slips his feet into his last usable pair of house slippers. He makes a mental note to check the market for more as soon as possible.

“And did he knock this time or simply leave you be?” Ignis asks as he glides elegantly to his right, curving between the coffee table and television to make for the short counter in the alcove housing the kitchenette.

“Well, no, he left me alone, but—”

“Then that seems to be an improvement upon previous occasions,” Ignis replies, head canted in Cid’s direction as he begins to remove produce and dried goods alike from the paper bag, one by one.

“ _Aahhh,”_ Cid grunts and gesticulates in dissatisfaction, if the sudden rustling of fabric is to be believed. “That isn’t the point! Knockin’, no knockin’, he only ever shows up while you’re out!”

“So I’ve heard.” It must’ve come out more condescending than Ignis intended, because Cid snorts in displeasure.

“Don’t take that _tone_ with me, I ain’t makin’ it up.”

The bag is empty, so Ignis folds it neatly and leaves it upon the counter.

“I’m well aware, Cid. I will have to have a conversation with the lobby again. Did you take your medication?”

Cid responds with a garish bout of coughing, prompting Ignis to extend a bracing hand cautiously to his shoulder, lest he collapse as he’s done in the past. Once the tension eases, Cid swats him away rather lazily, returning again to the relative solitude of his room.

“ _Yes, mother,”_ Cid says with a snide tone, and Ignis furrows his brow as he feels for the knob to the electric range.

“That doesn’t hurt my feelings,” he claims with voice slightly raised, but with Cid’s _selective hearing_ , he can’t be sure the sentiment landed.

_Now, for supper._

\---

Cid is long since asleep by the time Ignis can relax, having cleaned up after feeding them both rice and vegetables for dinner and in desperate need of a shower and a moment to collect himself. The day had been fairly standard and yet he is finding himself a bit restless as he strips layers of clothing away in the bathroom, which is neither too small nor particularly roomy. In the morning, he’s meant to meet Gladio and Prompto at Hammerhead to take care of a daemon situation on Cindy’s behalf, Prompto having already made for the outpost days prior, and Gladio having likely left for it as well. Ignis might be inclined to do the same had he not taken up the mantle of caregiver yet again in his life, but it was customary for him to be choosy now, and even when he did take to daemon hunting, he was wont to leave only at the exact moment necessary, finding himself too concerned to leave Cid alone for too long.

He leaves the water a touch hotter than usual as he steps over the lip and into the tub, sagging automatically under the warm spatter at the back of his neck and shoulders. Time passes before he can will his hands to reach for the caddy hanging from the showerhead and pluck his necessities from it as needed, having their contents memorized based on length and shape of each bottle or nozzle.

A substantial amount of time, or perhaps very little, seems to run together seamlessly.

Ten years it’s been, and yet still Noctis creeps into his mind when he’s naked and alone, excruciatingly vulnerable in his most private moments. Everything is different and so many unfathomable things have come to pass, but Ignis can never quell the urge to reach out for details that he knows damn well are hopelessly lost. He curses the lather on his skin for not smelling like him, bemoans the rush of the water for drowning out the sound of him, resents his own feeble memory for obscuring the sight of him.

This time, _this time_ , he’s far too empty to muster tears.

The robe is cool on his heated skin, even after drying thoroughly and stepping out into the living area where he’d already prepared his futon for sleep. There’s a lamp at the end table which he leaves on more for Cid’s benefit than his own, but he shuts it off all the same. Something about the pitch darkness appeals to him this night, so he indulges himself in it as though it hasn’t been a constant companion for over a decade of his life.

He considers, however briefly, reaching for his phone which houses years old video, ferried from one mobile device to the next, of a young Prince he used to know in what seems now like an alternate reality, and despite the uselessness of the video itself, the audio has brought him many nights of restful, albeit dream laden sleep.

Instead, Ignis rolls over onto his side and swallows hard.

\---

_This darkness is beyond bleak. It’s dense, it chokes, seduces. Why does it seem oddly familiar?_

_Clouds roll in from somewhere, black against a black night sky, high above and somehow all around._

_All around._

_Outdoors._

_It’s too dark to see, to make out anything. The dirt at your feet isn’t even visible, the mountains in the distance—mountains?_

_How many steps have you taken, or have you taken any?_

_Ashore._

_An island._

_Waves lap against rock walls, churning black, everything black. Stone underfoot. Stone stairs and a narrow passage that seems to lead into yet more darkness._

_Something lies within, something terrifying and—_

_The wind howls, there’s the unmistakable bark of a canine from somewhere. It should seem odd, but the feeling, the eerie feeling billowing from the corridor and enshrouding, enveloping so completely is all that matters. It is all that matters in this moment or any other; that is certain._

_Whatever it is, whomever it is, is coming, is here, has always been…_

_The darkness twists and turns, it speaks in a voice so intimate that it feels real; it forms and deforms, extends like a hand until it obscures what little light there is to see by._

And it’s only then that Ignis realizes he can see, and in so realizing he jolts awake, forehead cold with a sheen of sweat. He pants loudly into the room, filling it with his own sounds simply to dull the silence. He’s distantly aware that there is some manner of light on in the suite, but past that he’s still stuck half way between his dream and reality.

Grasping for the voice, unable to shake the way it unnerves him, unable to believe what he thinks he’s heard.

_It can’t be._

Ignis sits bolt upright, robe hanging half from his body, exposing his right shoulder and chest to the relative cold. He’s still, canvassing the suite for sounds of life, but it is utterly silent. Not even the whirr of Cid’s humidifier.

He’s gone, a fact which leaves Ignis uneasy as he slides to the edge of the futon and stands, ignoring the slippers to make for the dresser at the opposite wall, feeling clumsy as a result of his haste. Finding trousers that he identifies based first on location and secondarily by touch, he steps into them before shrugging the robe off completely to replace it with a button down. He nearly leaves the room without his phone, which he spins on his heel to retrieve from the table beside his futon, realizing at once that it’s missing and he isn’t even aware of the time.

With steadying fingertips against the wall he makes his way down the hotel hall, steps routinely counted, distance memorized. The stairs he takes in a similar fashion with similar robotic familiarity, unable to hide his frazzled dismay as he struggles to descend more quickly than his disability would safely allow. He calls out Cid’s name, narrowly dodging a resident as he reaches the lobby floor. Pausing to take stock of his surroundings, he rests a hand at the back of a worn chair not far from the stairwell, willing his heart to beat with less thunderous persistence so that his ears might again be of use. Once more, he calls out for the old man.

“Stop all that hollerin’, ain’t you supposed to be the one with all the manners?”

Ignis snaps his head in the direction of Cid’s consternation as he draws near; befuddled by the notion that he’d somehow missed his presence entirely and silently chastising himself for it.

“You’re safe?”

“Course I am, quit asking stupid questions. Besides, you got a phone call,” he answers, and there’s an impatient hand wrapped around Ignis’ left wrist and a cool, hard object being pressed into his upturned palm.

His own phone. And a voice already emitting from the receiver.

Ignis takes in a breath and holds; for how long, he has absolutely no idea. The voice from his dreams returns to lean hard into him, the words he thinks he heard but dare not say, dare not even acknowledge fully lest hope raise its loathsome head and crack him in half for what may be the thousandth time. With hesitance not typical of him, Ignis puts the phone to his ear, straightens his shoulders, lifts his head to the ceiling.

“Talcott?”

\---

Neither beast nor machine could ferry Ignis to Hammerhead with enough haste upon receiving that call, a call he’d half expected but hadn’t truly the will to believe in, and yet even so, as he waited restlessly at what was once Takka’s diner, hands gripping his knees tight enough to cause discomfort, he still found himself unable to believe.

Even as his mind was blank he was vaguely aware of the pressure of Prompto’s hand round his arm, of the flash of truck lights, of the muted sound of steps approaching. His ears rang so loudly that he could scarcely recognize his own voice as he willed words from the pit of his stomach through a throat now ten years dry. He said the words, knows he said them, and he doesn’t even remember them.

It made little matter, his voice or any other aside from the one that followed the jolting rap to his shoulder, searing through him like so many brands, and never in his life had he struggled so hard not to buckle at the knee.

Not even when Noctis pressed a guiding hand at the small of his back could he believe.

_Be waiting in Hammerhead._

\---

They return to Lestallum in a group large enough to rival a hunter envoy, and with what little luck this wretched world could rally, they manage to avoid engaging any daemons along the way. Ignis offered to accompany Talcott, but bless his heart, he wouldn’t have any of it, and nor would Noctis when he caught wind of the attempted arrangement.

 _“C’mon, ride with me, Specs,”_ he’d urged, and the sound of the nickname hit Ignis like a shot. _“I promise, I won’t drive.”_

And so Ignis is sat in the back seat alongside his King, mercifully, laboring to wipe the persistent smile from his face and forgetting to speak periodically as a result. Or perhaps he was enjoying the cacophony in the car for once, because now it bore intense meaning again. Now the voice that had been missing is so close, corporeal, warm breath on his skin when Noctis leans close to ask him a question or tease him for being so quiet.

“You don’t think Prompto is talking enough for the four of us?”

Noctis laughs, he _laughs_ , and Ignis is positively giddy inside despite Prompto’s faux petulance.

There’s a steady pressure on his thigh then, and warmth. A hand. Ignis inhales through his teeth as the vehicle shudders over gravel and rough road a decade unattended. Noctis is _enticingly close_ ; his hair grazes the skin of Ignis’ neck and jawline, electrifying him for more reasons than he is able to count.

“ _You’ll have to talk sometime,”_ his King murmurs low, and Ignis has been at this long enough to know that there’s a smile on those lips.

The hand disappears and the boys raise voices in unison over some thing or another as Gladio attempts to bring Noctis up to speed about the state of the world; a task which Ignis knows should be his, were he remotely capable of speaking without the need to swallow the permanent knot in his throat.

The ride is long but uneventful, and an entourage of loved ones awaits Noctis within the city. There’s a small diner on the side of town opposite the Leville where they take Noctis to meet the likes of those keeping watch in his stead. Ignis takes a seat in a familiar corner, as the proprietor of the establishment allows him to use the facilities for cooking should the need arise. The tone is jovial as residents greet and hug and cry, one by one, and through the rising clamor Ignis can make out the voices of everyone from Iris and Aranea to Holly and Dave, and even Cid.

Noctis is so accommodating and grateful, he pays them each their due and laughs with them, and as Ignis observes in silence by the only means he has left to him, he feels as though the pride may break him open wide for all to see. Prompto sits with him a while as Noctis is flanked by Amicitias, speaking encouraging words and asking if he’s alright. Ignis knows it’s well meaning, but Prompto is clearly looking for a reaction that Ignis is simply incapable of, and after a time passes he too wanders off into the milling crowd of close friends.

The hotel owner is in attendance as well, announcing that the open suite on the top floor has been reserved for Noctis. He makes a bit of a show of handing the King his room key, the dolt, and leaves the gathering dense with praises before dismissing himself for the night. Eventually, most of the welcome party follows suit, until all that remains are Noctis, Prompto, Gladio, Iris, and Aranea.

“So, daemon hunting?” Noctis asks, settling into the seat across from Ignis, though clearly aiming the question elsewhere.

“Yeah, daemon hunting. It’s kind of _everyone’s_ thing nowadays, Noct,” Iris responds with stereotypical indignity.

“You needn’t tease her, Majesty. She’s earned quite the reputation in your absence,” Ignis bows his head in Noctis’ direction, paying the young huntress her due.

“Hey, not teasing, I wouldn’t dare!”

“Good, because I’m pretty sure she could kick your ass out there,” Aranea chimes in, and Ignis can’t help but stifle a snort.

“You too, Ignis?” Noct pouts, and despite Ignis’ propensity to meet sarcasm in kind, the way his name falls from Noctis’ mouth immediately robs him of the ability to produce levity from thin air.

“I trust wholeheartedly in your abilities,” he replies a bit too quickly, and although he is very serious, Prompto snickers, thinking better of it and catching himself when no one else joins in.

“Oh, that wasn’t a joke?”

“ _You’re_ the joke,” Gladio taunts, and there’s a shuffling akin to a playful scuffle before Prompto whines his surrender.

The room falls deafeningly silent then, summoning a tonal shift that Ignis could feel in every molecule of his body, to the very marrow in his bones. Gladiolus speaks first.

“Look, Noct. We know you gotta— _we_ gotta—deal with the Ardyn situation. But everyone thought…you should take some time. Ya know, get our shit together, come up with some kinda plan before the final battle.”

“Yeah, I mean, you’ve been gone ten years so, uh,” Prompto trails off searching for the right words to express a sentiment that is utterly beyond every one of them.

“Look,” Aranea interrupts, “the fact is, nothing is changing around here. Lestallum is stable, the people are fed. We’ll keep hunting daemons like we always have, and the citizens’ll keep seeing their King in their streets and in their shops, doing that whole _hope_ thing, you got it?”

Ignis nods in agreement, bending toward where Noctis sits across the table.

“Indeed. Insomnia is urgent, however so long as Ardyn makes no move from the Citadel, there is still time. Time we can attempt to use to our advantage now that you’ve returned.”

“Of course,” Noctis says with a determined cadence, as though this is all information in which he was well versed and had come to similar conclusions of his own accord long before they had. He stands to wander amongst his allies and Ignis does the same, finally, as the room descends again into gentle praise and thanks and awe at the events of the day. Ignis too is in awe, so much so that he feels his head growing light for the hundredth time as his mind drifts to the back seat of the car and the gentle brush of Noct’s hair against his skin.

_His hair has grown long and his voice so heartening and steady. He must have changed so…_

The hour has grown late in record time as he languished in Noctis’ presence, feeling selfish every time he was able to steal Noct’s attentions for the briefest moment from the clambering hands and well wishes of his people.

 _His_ people, as he is their King, and Ignis knows he harbors little right to wrench him from their grasp or galvanize his time, much as he has absolutely ached to do so since Noct’s sheepish “ _hey”_ echoed through the constant darkness of Ignis’ existence and cut a path clean into him. When Noctis laughs again about something or another that Iris has said, the warmth swells so acutely within Ignis that he exhales his pain, fingers kneading at his brow as though he can rub his scars, both tangible and emotional, away completely. With alarming speed he’s becoming overwhelmed and the need to quietly dismiss himself is increasingly evident; if for no other reason than the fact that he simply must catch his breath.

Ignis begs apologies from the group before he exits, nodding a meek reassurance to Noctis that it was good to have him home. They seem to take Ignis’ departure as a catalyst to disperse, exchanging good nights at his back as Ignis finally leaves and takes the shallow steps down an alleyway, ducking quickly to his right when it opens to a wider walkway leading toward the city’s center. Ignis slumps a little ungainly against a building by the shoulder, sucking in warm air, beginning to laugh a bit ruefully under his breath even as his eyes burn behind scarred lids.

_Is this real…?_

He lifts a trembling hand to his breast, pressing the pads of his fingertips to his sternum to have something to center his thoughts on as the magnitude of the evening comes crashing down upon his shoulders. Noctis is returned. He is _here,_ he is _staying_ here, there’s a plan in motion to end this darkness for good, a darkness Ignis could never be certain he had the heart to wish away despite his deep desire to have his beloved Prince returned to him.

 _King_.

“ _Noct,”_ he whispers against the steam spewing from nearby pipes and the darkness he knows envelops him, envelops them all. Somewhere, buried in a distant and elusive memory, he hears the name slide from between his teeth in the same meter and lilt, precious and forbidden in a time preceding roles and arrangements predicated upon diplomacy and desperation. He remembers errant touches and grazes of lips that lingered too long to be considered proper or practical, brushed aside implacably for greater good after greater good, and he can’t help but wonder if Noctis recalls similar things. The wondering stops him cold, until a voice from behind startles him to alertness.

“Ignis?” Noctis asks, and Ignis is once again agitated by his failure to detect approaching footsteps. He turns to face the direction of Noct’s voice, reflexively adjusting his visor with a middle finger at the center, clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders. In his emotionally compromised state, he’s fearful that appearances may reflect reality, but with Noctis so close and so frank, there is little he can do to remedy that situation further.

“Majesty, I—”

His response is cut short when fingers curl about his wrist, tight, and to his absolute shock there’s an open palm at his shoulder, pushing his back flush against the building and so near the belching pipes that he’s sure Noctis is intentionally obscuring the two of them from the curious eyes of passersby.

“I’m sorry, but you…you’ve been so _quiet_ all night and I didn’t know what to do with everyone standing around.”

Ignis gazes straight forward, eye fixed and brow knitted as he strains to process the clutching hands and perplexing words thrust his direction.

“I apologize, Noct, I simply…I never meant to _ignore_ you, it has just been so overwhelming. You’ll have to forgive my sudden and clearly _regrettable_ inefficiency with words.” His heart races as Noctis’ fingers knead at his shoulder, almost as if he’s thinking, but about what Ignis couldn’t bear to speculate.

“I know you aren’t ignoring me, Iggy. You’re being polite, giving everybody else their turn. When are you planning to have _your_ turn?”

Ignis visibly tenses, breath hitching in his throat as he silently prays to The Six that the steam is hiding the flush in his cheeks.

“What are you _asking?_ ”

The hand at Ignis’ shoulder glides effortlessly inward, following the slope of his neck up until fingers are threading the hair at his nape and a thumb traces the pleasant jut of his jawline. Well before he can catch it and choke it down, a pitifully broken gasping sigh escapes him, his chest trembling with the sound and exposing him as the deeply needy creature he has become.

“I’m asking if you feel the same, Ignis. Or…have I been gone too long?”

Noctis steps in closer, a leg between Ignis’ thighs, and his stroking fingers couldn’t possibly be any warmer, anymore distracting.

“Noct, _please,_ ” Ignis draws back the arm still caught in Noct’s grasp as if to pull away, though to where he’d no idea and no recourse as Noctis had adequately trapped him. Noct’s meaning is clear, but even as he continues to press inexorably toward his goal, Ignis can scarcely believe or trust that it’s real.

“You’ve been so good to me, Ignis, you’ve given me _everything_ , and I haven’t been here,” his voice is hushed when he leans inward as Ignis instinctively turns away. Still cradling Ignis’ head by the hand, he rests his temple along Ignis’ angular cheekbone. His lips are near enough to an ear that his breath can be felt against skin. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry for everything, but _fuck_ you’re so beautiful. You’re so beautiful and _I want to thank you.”_

“ _You are my King,_ ” is all that Ignis can marshal despite the years of more important things he’s dreamt of saying again and again to this man that has come to rule more personal space in his heart than all the nations of Eos combined.

Noctis retreats then, but Ignis doesn’t have long to suffer his absence as warm but eager lips find his, pinning him against the wall, exploring until he grants them the entry they persistently seek. Noct’s tongue follows close behind, knocking forcefully against the slick surface of Ignis’ teeth before they, too, part in dutiful acquiescence to the desires of their King. Ignis scrambles not to get lost in it all; in the warm slip of their tongues together, in the abstractly familiar taste of Noctis and the wet, hungry sounds that threaten to shatter every last remnant of his already taxed restraint. He realizes as Noctis suddenly separates them that he’s failing miserably, leaning slightly forward to chase the heat and comfort of a mouth he’d seen only in dreams, and even then the image had faded.

“Come to my room with me.”

Ignis balks even as his heart rockets up into his throat and lodges there.

“ _Noct,_ I mustn’t, _we_ mustn’t…there’s so much to lose, and the people will be expecting you to Ascend—”

“Ignis, I really don’t give a shit about any of that right now. It’ll all be waiting for me no matter what I do, and you’re right, there’s plenty to lose. There’s plenty that’s already been lost.”

Ignis tries not to scoff at Noctis, but more importantly at himself for being selfishly touched by how ardently he’s willing to toss aside decorum for a moment alone. He is certainly more direct and more _convincing_ than last they were together.

“Don’t say things that you don’t mean…”

“I’m not, I mean every word, Iggy, I mean…don’t you _know_?” The bridge of Noct’s nose is suddenly following the line of Ignis’ jaw, the hand at his neck sliding downward to rest at the curve of his chest. Ignis finally musters the courage to lay his own hand over Noct’s.

“I know enough. I know the prophecy, as do most these days. But I…also know what the prophecy _means._ The part that Cor dances around when I ask too many probing questions.”

“You don’t know anything,” Noctis says suddenly, the warmth of his breath fading as he draws back, his voice heavy with an odd mixture of sarcasm and melancholy.

Ignis knows the look he wears is one of perplexity, head tilted to one side as if begging explanation. Noctis’ following words have far greater urgency and depth, his voice disintegrating into mostly breath, and yet it hits Ignis’ ear with clarity unique from everything he’s heard in the past day.

“ _If you knew, you’d come with me.”_


	2. Uneasy Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We belong to those who never die,  
> The time for joining coming soon,  
> In night divine beneath the moon.
> 
> Dark Desires, excerpt (Nicola Byrne & Michael P Clarke)

Ignis finds himself pinned firm against the door of Noct’s suite the moment it closes, breathing heavily beneath the might of Noctis’ steady hands as they grope at his chest to loose buttons from loops. His kiss is rougher than before, nipping at Ignis’ tongue and lips with a hunger that he might find astonishing if it didn’t mirror his own. Noctis presses inward as his fingers move in deft rhythm down the trail of buttons, the rasp of his beard along Ignis’ jaw causing the heat blossoming in his groin to spike suddenly.

 _A beard, Noctis has a beard,_ he thinks to himself almost frantically, as if he can’t believe he didn’t know, and the smile that emerges from someplace deep within is pained and sorrowful.

“What’s _that_ face for?” Noctis asks, catching Ignis in his ill-timed reverie, pulling the sides of his unbuttoned shirt upward until it’s free of his slacks, all the while continuing to bite and mouth at the underside of Ignis’ chin and jaw.

“Nothing, merely…you’ve _changed_ , Noct,” Ignis answers readily, too foggy in the mind already to bother with pretense, especially once he feels warm hands trace the curve of his shoulders to slide the sleeves of his shirt down the length of his arms, fingertips dragging lightly against skin, teasing. Ignis rolls his spine in a motion that frees the shirt from between his back and the door, clenching his eye shut at the sound of it making soft contact with the floor. “I can’t bear the thought of how much I’ve _missed._ ”

Noctis closes in then, his hip hugging the subtle bend of Ignis’ stiff cock at the exact moment that he sinks teeth into Ignis’ left collarbone. The hiss that bursts from Ignis seems to animate Noctis, because he quickly responds by lifting his head and his hip in devious tandem, pressing hard enough into Ignis’ cock to force out a keening groan. Fingers trail along his forehead gently above his brow, wandering back into his hair to reset a few wayward strands, and Ignis is all too eager to lean into the touch.

“You won’t be missing anymore, Iggy.”

With that, Ignis decides that he’s had quite enough; he’s at his personal limit, so he lifts his hands to rest his palms on either side of Noct’s face, eyelid fluttering open again when he can sense Noctis still his breathing.

“ _Go ahead,”_ he encourages as Ignis slides curious thumbs along Noct’s cheekbones and inward, pinching the bridge of his nose between them and drawing down. Both thumbs he allows to drop to slightly parted, full lips, gliding them out toward the corners and smiling when he can feel the coarse hair scrape against the pad of each. Noctis grins in response and Ignis can’t help but press his thumbs finally to the corner of his lips, desperate to imprint _this new smile_ into his memory. Noctis exhales against him, his own hands wandering by inches up Ignis’ bare sides, absentmindedly creating diversion.

Ignis refocuses, his fingertips walking along Noct’s brow from center out, drifting down over his closed eyelids and further, until he slides them over his finely squared and bristled jaw to cup his face, long fingers slipping into the hair at the back of the neck behind his ears. Pulling him close, Ignis cranes his neck until their foreheads meet, inhaling deeply his King’s scent, somehow both foreign _and_ familiar, losing himself momentarily in the way it seeps into him and takes him over, warming him through and through with more ease than any sunlight ever had.

Ignis chuckles quietly, a rise and fall of the shoulders more than an actual laugh, and his voice is similarly hushed.

“As though there were ever any doubt that you’d be anything _less_ than perfect.”

There’s a charged silence that lasts several seconds; an almost threatening thing of mingling breaths and trembling hands, before Noctis descends upon Ignis as a predator to prey, reclaiming his mouth before yanking him from the door by the hips with a viselike grip that sends a jolt up Ignis’ spine.

“The bed,” Noctis dictates between restless kisses, retreating into what Ignis could only assume is the direction of the bed as he’s entirely unaccustomed to the suites on the top floor. Ignis leans forward to steal every kiss he conceivably can, knowing it makes him clumsy as Noctis guides him by the hip, toes occasionally knocking together and giving rise to the smile on Noct’s lips.

Kissing that smile is utterly maddening.

Suddenly, Noctis moves to Ignis’ right and the bed seems to appear as if from nowhere, Ignis’ knees stuttering against it as he involuntarily gropes with a searching hand. Charitably, Noct snatches it up, using it as leverage to twist Ignis in place and force him back until he sinks down onto the mattress, clinging to that benevolent hand for dear life.

“I’m sorry,” Ignis blurts out for no real reason, only because it’s become so routine to apologize when his impairment renders him unwieldy and inept. Noctis plucks his visor from his nose unexpectedly, sitting it somewhere nearby with a soft _clack_.

“Don’t apologize, Iggy, just lie back,” he says with a tone so commanding it sends a chill spiraling up Ignis’ spine, and when the bed dips beside his right thigh he obediently rolls backward onto the sheets.

“Of course…”

Noct’s hands are alarmingly efficient at Ignis’ belt and pants, freeing him from them with such unabashed urgency and entitlement that he half takes the briefs along with them as he tugs them down over Ignis’ sculpted thighs. Ignis lifts and twists his hips in time with Noct’s removal method, bending one knee and then the other as pant legs are peeled from his body and tossed whole in a heap on the floor. There’s a rustling of fabric that Ignis assumes is Noctis removing his own clothing, probably jacket and shirt by the sound of it, followed by a momentary silence.

Then it happens; Noctis is over him, _all_ over him, mouth pressed into the column of his neck and biting, fingers of one hand curling beneath the elastic of his briefs as the other cradles him at the back of the neck.

Ignis moans for the first time without the detestable claws of restraint holding him back, immediately overwhelmed by the coiling of warm digits around his aching cock. He reacts to everything instinctively, thoughtlessly, hips canting upward to propel himself lazily through the winch of Noct’s hand, reaching up to fumble for something— _anything_ —of Noct’s to hold fast to. He clings to his bare back, fingers digging into shoulder blades as Noctis licks into his throat, sucking marks into his skin hard enough to result in little jolts of pain that cause Ignis to inhale through gritted teeth.

Still, Noctis is rough, and though Ignis is _surprised_ he's far from opposed. He rakes his fingers along the jut of Ignis’ bare hipbone as he shoves his briefs further down, sighing in apparent satisfaction when Ignis’ cock pulses upward to thump against Noct’s stomach.

“I’m gonna make you feel _so good_ , Ignis,” Noct promises against Ignis’ ear, lining his high cheekbone with kisses that are all lip before sitting back on his haunches, coaxing a little wounded noise from Ignis as he’s forced to release Noctis, hands grasping instead for the lithe thighs that straddle his waist. His head reels over the words hanging in the presumable darkness between them, floating and ambient like particles of dust glittering when caught in a stream of bright moonlight. Ignis thinks he can almost see them there, corporeal as the hips that meet his as Noctis grinds down into his cock, one hand braced upon the bed to Ignis’ side as the other traces fingertips over the swell of a trembling chest, the brush of a pert nipple sending little cords of pleasure through Ignis like winding arcs of electricity.

It catches him off guard, the firm slide of his King’s sex along his own, forcing the sigh from Ignis’ lungs up through his throat, until it slips unceremoniously from between parted lips, breathy and dense with long overdue release.

“ _Ah, Noct,”_ he sighs again, rutting upward hard enough to push Noctis’ cock into the junction between hip and shaft. It doesn't slow him for even an instant, instead inciting him to redouble his efforts, surging forward to hike his knees beneath Ignis’ thighs as he seals his lips tight against the column of a throat already reverberating with the steady stream of melodic moans.

The warmth of his body is close enough to make Ignis sweat, or perhaps that's merely the urgency and desire catching up to him finally as his well assembled and staunchly guarded walls are demolished with each drive of Noct’s hips.

“Ignis,” Noctis says, breath hot against skin, “your hands.”

It's only then that Ignis realizes he's been white knuckling Noct’s thighs throughout their shared search for gratification.

“I want you to touch me,” he commands, voice cloying and thick as he rises to Ignis’ ear. “I'll make it worth your _while.”_

The way that last word spills into his ear, molten and heavy with the weight of promises too sweet to ignore, leaves Ignis collapsing boneless into the sheets even as he skims both hands inward to slither fingers into Noctis’ fly. He nods only because he’s failing to form words; exhale stuttering as he peels Noct’s boxers open like an anticipated gift, pressing his palm against the underside of his bare cock. The cloth against his knuckles is worn and warm, and Ignis marvels briefly over the fact that these clothes are ten years aged, much the same as the man that dons them, and the reality of it still hits him sideways like the sweep of a leg from a sparring partner, one that sends you careening into the dirt in slow motion. Reflection is agonizing, it’s all Ignis has been doing for a decade; trying desperately to fend off hopelessness while cognizant of the fact that he’s far from guiltless in the grand scheme of things. He pushes the heel of his palm beneath the head of Noct’s cock in a concerted effort to shake free of dark places, trapping it against his belly as slender fingers span the length of his shaft to graze lightly at his sac. The breath that hitches in Noct’s throat is followed by a groan so abrupt that Ignis cants his head away involuntarily to escape the sudden noise at his ear.

Ignis hears a labored _Sorry,_ before there are fingers clawing at his jaw to tug him into another exploratory kiss, a tongue immediately forcing entry, licking into his own to draw it up and bite down violently enough to draw out a surprised yelp that Noctis takes into his mouth. Ignis fumbles dumbly as Noctis pulls away to wrest the briefs completely from his adviser’s body. His haste is contagious, transferring from his impatient hands directly to Ignis and manifesting itself in the form of heightened need. Before Ignis realizes what he’s doing his body reacts, knees falling open to welcome Noctis back into his embrace, hands forming to his shoulders as Noct sinks low enough to ghost his lips over a scarred eyelid. Ignis bends obediently to accommodate him, ankles hooking together at the small of Noct’s back. Fingers crawl over the sharp jut of his jaw to press at the center of a soft bottom lip, drawing it downward until it pops free of the top lip to bare brilliant white teeth.

“Open.”

Ignis flinches when the breath hits his lashes, heart racing as he complies with the demand, slackening his jaw. Noct hooks a finger over the bottom row of teeth, testing the pliant warmth of Ignis’ tongue, before plunging two of them inside, prodding him open until Ignis thinks he may go mad.

It’s been a long time—what feels like an eternity—since Ignis felt concerned about his appearance. Of course, he’s always aware of himself _spatially,_ and wont to look the best that he can manage despite his loss of sight. However, in the vain sense, he learned fairly quickly that it was futile to suffer such inconsequentialities.

 _Now,_ however, his face burning with want and abashedly flushed, mouth hanging obscenely agape as Noctis, _Noctis,_ digs methodically at the back of his throat, he can’t help but wonder how unequivocally libertine he must appear.

“Don’t bite,” he hears Noctis hum as he presses his fingers down in tandem, holding Ignis’ tongue steady as he languorously rolls his hips again. Ignis is sure he finds a way to redden even further at the sound that tumbles from his open mouth unchecked. He reaches for Noct’s wrist to steady his hand, summoning a soft chuckle from Noctis as his free hand disappears between them to clamber clumsily, or at least it seems that way until Ignis feels the unmistakable heat of a cock rigid against his perineum. He stiffens at the contact, wilting as Noctis angles himself, dragging the smooth head of his cock along the soft curve beneath Ignis’ sac and between his cheeks, pausing only once he reaches the taut hole nestled there.

Ignis chokes around Noctis’ fingers because he can’t cry out proper, eyes rolling back and lids aflutter, in utter disbelief over the way one simple swipe of Noct’s dick has driven him to the precarious edge of sanity, never mind that he’s now rubbing that spot in languid strokes, pushing forward on the return stroke with just enough pressure to threaten entry, to fill Ignis promptly with an overwhelming and urgent need, a burning panic unlike anything he could’ve ever dreamed.

“ _Does it feel good?”_ Noctis has the audacity to ask, knowing both the nature of the answer and the fact that it would be stifled by his very hand.

Ignis nods, gagging lasciviously on the saliva building in his throat as Noct toys mercilessly with his gag reflex. He struggles to swallow without the use of his tongue, the salt of Noct's skin something intoxicatingly familiar to him. He huffs out a moan that presents more like a croak as the saliva continues to pool between his teeth and cheeks, a sound which apparently touches Noct someplace tender as he responds with a little empathetic noise.

“We’ll need that,” he says as he rises up on his knees, folding Ignis ever farther. He rolls his hips with controlled, guided thrusts, hand still pressing his cock firm to Ignis’ skin as he ruts between his cheeks, sharpening their shared pleasure. Just as Ignis’ resolve snaps, Noct withdraws his fingers in a scooping motion that pulls the spit from Ignis’ mouth in a single, messy swoop, leaving him to gasp wet lipped as those same two fingers recommence their efforts around the tight ring still yearning for the blessing of a royal cock.

The first fingertip causes Ignis to shudder, having underestimated all these years the degree to which he desperately longed to be touched. Noctis seems to know this somehow, perhaps because wherever he’d been he’d suffered the same sort of molecular loneliness, and the need to be reminded that one is still human after so long in isolation is instinctual. This cruel sort of alienation they suffered in kind melts away beneath the tentative press of Noct’s warm, wet fingers, crawling inside of Ignis just enough to burn; to remind him how it felt to be alive.

“You’ll be alright. I’ll go slow,” Noctis declares in the most reassuring tone Ignis has heard yet. He bends to let his head hang low, cheekbone pressed to Ignis’ and beard rasping along clean shaven skin. Overcome, Ignis wraps his arms lightly about his King’s neck, losing fingers in the hair at his nape and growing a bit fretful when it seems Noctis has ceased his amorous advances. Ignis fidgets impatiently into soft pads that promised naught but the world mere moments prior, sighing accidentally in Noct’s ear something sounding a bit distressed.

“ _You don’t have to_ ,” Ignis hears himself murmur, almost as if he’s observing from afar, because he can’t possibly be capable of forming words here with a dead man in his embrace and his head swimming with nonsense about fondness and raw emotions and gaping wounds finally finding themselves mended.

The stinging slide of a single slender finger is the only response he receives as Noctis breaches trembling defenses, pressing firm against Ignis’ inner walls as he makes perfect circles with the swirl of the digit. It isn’t overwhelming, not quite yet, but Ignis gasps apprehensively all the same, putting a subtle arch in his back as Noctis tests the clench of his outer rim with the tip of a second finger.

His body is pushing back despite his deep desire for Noctis to push _forward_ , to knock down every wall that Ignis had carefully erected since the day they lost one another. Forcing Noct further inside with the sudden roll of his hips, Ignis keens; feeling the burn of another fingertip prying him open and claiming space alongside its counterpart. Their movements are slow and methodical from within, calculating and almost otherworldly patient as Ignis grows increasingly the opposite. Noctis curls his fingers simultaneously in a concerted effort to beckon forth Ignis’ pleasure in the literal sense, lining Ignis’ cheekbone and forehead with pacifying kisses once he realizes there’s a thin layer of sweat forming there.

“It hurts?” Noctis asks, lips coming to a halt to hover not far from Ignis’ ear. He shakes his head in reply, brows drawing inward in a sharp line and teeth clenched in a timid snarl.

“ _No,”_ Ignis breathes, “I… _ah,_ I’m _fine_.” Pain wouldn’t exactly describe it, so it wasn’t exactly a lie despite the inherent discomfort in the drag of mostly dry skin inside, stretching him wide little by little, in tiny, manageable increments that make Ignis feel as if every fiber of his rationality is fraying. Noct’s fingers squirm like foreign creatures, rubbing just the right place in rapid succession, inviting reactionary jolt after jolt from Ignis’ legs and hips. “Don’t stop, Noct, _please,”_ he begs pitifully, the heat in his cheeks and down his neck giving rise to a deep blush he knows consistently accompanies it.

Noctis cants forward, groin trapping his hand against Ignis’ body and forcing his fingers to go rigid within. Ignis sucks a sharp inhale from between his teeth, throwing his head harder into the pillow at his neck. He swears he can hear Noctis make a noise akin to a growl.

“It sounds like you need _more_ ,” Noctis warns into his ear, voice laden with purposeful menace, and before Ignis can form words he’s left cold on the bed as Noctis breaks the confines of their embrace, withdrawing his fingers slowly as he pulls them apart, giving one last preparatory stretch before they’re free and Ignis is left feeling alarmingly open and exposed.

Warm palms adhere to Ignis’ thighs, searching, thumbs kneading affectionately until Noctis settles into his position with his knees hiked beneath Ignis’ ass. The anticipation is agonizing, scorching hot just beneath the skin and tightest in the pit of his stomach, as Noctis folds to seal his lips above a collarbone, nipping and sucking with enough enthusiasm to lead Ignis to the conclusion that evidence would certainly be left behind. When he disconnects finally it’s to lay wet kisses to Ignis’ chin, one hand moving from a propped up thigh to help situate the tip of Noct’s cock at a modestly primed entrance. Ignis can feel his heat, the smoothness of his velvety skin, as the slightest pressure instantly has him swallowing Noct’s head almost completely, seducing him inside despite the immediate need to jerk and pull away; to retreat from what his body is convinced is nothing more than an invader.

“Ignis,” Noctis starts, sounding hampered and tremulous already, “I can’t…I don’t have any way to make this easier for you.” He sounds repentant, hesitant even, and Ignis can’t bear anymore excess pity in his life.

“I’m not made of _glass_ , Majesty.”

There’s a soft laughter from Noctis, his breath like heaven as it dances across Ignis’ neck and collar, and a hand descends to his temple to stroke gently along his right brow and cheekbone, tucking errant strands of hair finally behind his ear.

“Of course,” he says at last, the smile evident in his tone. “Of course you’re not.”

Ignis breathes deeply, holding it in his chest when he can sense that Noctis is close, facing him, and likely staring into his eyes. He tries to remain still, releasing the tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in his face the entire time, gazing ahead in Noct’s direction. Everything relaxes; every wound tight muscle in his body which coiled into knots as Noctis prodded and prepped him seems to buckle under the silence that falls over them, leaving Ignis to fall slack in both body and mind to the degree that words start to rise up from someplace intangible before he has the ability to catch them.

“Don’t wait, Noct,” Ignis’ hands fumble compulsively for an anchor, anything to keep him moored on the shores of whatever this new reality has proven to be, finding the curve of Noctis’ neck where he can run restless thumbs over the jut of a bristled jaw. “Please, we’ve waited long enough, I can’t bear it any longer, _please_.”

The advance is slow but it waylays him just the same, sending burdened whines issuing from Ignis’ lungs with all haste. Noctis slows to a stop, showering Ignis with soft kisses across eyelid and cheekbone, whispering praises saccharine enough that Ignis is almost distracted from the aching stretch of his body adjusting to Noct’s micro movements. He can’t even be sure how deeply his cock is buried within as he enfolds Noctis in his arms, pinning him close and hooking his ankles together again at the small of his back as if he may up and disappear for ten more miserable years.

Noctis sinks further, stuttering to a stop when Ignis gasps in response and claws into the flesh of his back.

“I’m sorry, Iggy…you’re taking it _so well_ , just hold on a little longer…”

Ignis groans in frustration, head tilting back to bear the column of his neck which is promptly rewarded with favorable attention from his King’s adoring lips. It still hurts, still burns when he contracts around what length of Noct he’s been capable of receiving thus far, but the _something else_ blossoming in its place—the feeling that Ignis can sense materializing as Noct’s angle sharpens and he draws nearer to a particularly irresistible spot hidden somewhere deep within—is intent upon taking him over.

Tightening the wrap of his legs about Noct’s frame, he draws him inward nearly to the hilt in a single motion, startling a yelp from Noctis as his cock is engulfed in its entirety. Ignis chokes on his own gasping cry as hips collide with his ass, nearly regretting the decision as he blinks away the hazy net of stars trapped in his eye that the sharp spasm of pain seems to have imparted. Noctis digs both hands into the sheets on either side of Ignis’ body, the sudden tension passing between them as intimately as any kiss.

“ _Fuck_ , you didn’t have to—”

Noctis sounds as though he’s said the last few words through gritted teeth, cutting himself off as he struggles to remain still and allow Ignis the last few moments to adjust; or so his trembling thighs would lead Ignis to believe.

The panic is still there, dense as the pleasure commingles strangely with the pain. Ignis feels heavy and weightless at the same time, murmuring stupidly for Noctis to _keep going, don’t stop, don’t wait._ His withdrawal is just as slow, almost a comfort as the tightness displaced by cock is allowed to relax, even through the stinging glide of Noct’s retreat. Ignis pants like a wounded animal, arms limp about Noct’s shoulders as he thrusts for the first time proper, arching Ignis’ back and curling his toes.

“ _Ah-!_ _Noct, please!”_ He digs fingers into flesh hard enough to draw blood he thinks, and to his complete relief Noctis stops, sagging under the brutality of Ignis’ clutching hands. He sucks in air through his teeth in a hurt noise that Ignis _does_ feel guilt and responsibility over, however his compromised state of mind has rested him of the power to do much about it. Noctis stirs only to rest his head against Ignis’ own, slick heat of his sweaty forehead plastering them together.

“Tell me when to go,” he commands sympathetically, his hair falling forward to sweep softly across Ignis’ cheekbones.

Ignis is in awe for a moment, arrested by the proximity of their mouths as they inhale each other’s labored breaths. Unconsciously, he tilts his chin upward until their lips meet, laving gratefully at the tongue that wanders comfortably inside, committing the taste of Noctis to memory as he adjusts himself gingerly at the waist. All at once it’s as if the panic ceases to exist and the discomfort makes no matter to him any longer, and Ignis isn’t quite sure to what he can accredit his surge of dauntlessness.

 “I want it. _Now.”_

This time, mercifully, when Noctis moves, the pleasure is thick, outweighing the pain by miles. An immodest moan escapes Ignis on the drawback, followed by a hissed _Yesss_ on the next purposeful thrust. It doesn’t take long before any traces of lingering agony melt away and give rise to only heat and friction and rapture shared between the two of them as Ignis rolls his hips in his King’s lap, desperate to meet every stroke with his own appreciative succor.

“ _Yes, that’s good, Ignis,”_ Noctis breathes against the skin of Ignis’ cheek, lips grazing the jagged lines of his scar as he places tender kisses over the disfigured eyelid. “You sound _incredible_ , please… _sing for me.”_

Noctis heaves forward, seating his cock as deeply inside of Ignis as he could manage, their bodies pressed flush as Noctis crumples Ignis nearly in half and holds him there, throttling every salacious sound imaginable from his throat. Ignis feels him touching someplace too intense to be real, and even he can hardly recognize the noises permeating the air about them as his own.

“ _Noct, Noctis! Noct—”_ he wails with the force of each snap of Noct’s hips, his entire body pitching against the mattress with the steady motion.

Their exchanged words are muddled and taxed as fingernails leave angry red marks in flesh and teeth find sensitive skin to bite and lick possessively. Ignis disappears from all creation, becoming something else entirely, some new being that only exists in tandem with Noctis, with the Sovereign King of all of Eos, when Ignis again has purpose beyond anything any other mortal could ever aspire to comprehend. Every synapse in his brain is alight, afire with a brilliant sort of light that no dawning sun could ever hope to rival in this dark life or the promise of the next. The sun is here, in his arms, buried in his sex and in his heart as he has always been, and even as the electric clutches of orgasm push him toward his perilous edge, Ignis is aware of this truth.

“ _Ignis! Fuck, I’m close—”_

Ignis pulls him tighter, as tight as his legs and arms could muster, because he simply can’t summon words from his chest; only euphoric mewls as he comes hard between them, the warmth of it across his abdomen paling in comparison to the warmth in his ass as Noctis comes immediately after, shuddering as he exhales loudly into Ignis’ ear. He fucks into him well past his climax, forcing seed to run in rivulets between Ignis’ cheeks and down the small of his back as Noctis keeps him propped up and filled to the brim, kissing almost apologetically at the line of his jaw. 

Ignis is swimming.

No.

Sinking.

The depths of this have swallowed him up, have found his submission to be supplication enough to bear him to the only thing he’s ever known and the only thing he’s ever wanted and the one thing he’s been cruelly forced to do without for so long.

Noctis pulls out of him slowly, and Ignis is sure he’s talking, sure their coupling has made a mess.

But he’s still sinking. Even as Noctis kisses him, both hands on either side of his face. Strong hands. Such strong, beautiful hands.

Ignis is sinking.

_What harrowing grief must I endure to make this last?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is tradition, kudos appreciated; comments lusted after :3c


	3. Happy Low, Lie Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do not go gentle into that good night,  
> Old age should burn and rage at close of day;  
> Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
> 
> Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, excerpt ~ Dylan Thomas

Weeks later and Noctis is still toiling ardently at convincing Ignis to relocate to his suite, but Ignis resists the urge despite its inherent appeal, citing Cid’s condition as a more than honorable reason to defy his King’s wishes.

“It’s not like he’s far, and you’ve got my help now. I’d be more than happy to share the work load.”

It’s early morning, and again he finds himself wrapped naked in Noct’s sheets, having spent his third night in his bed this week.  As his prolonged visits become more and more frequent, so too does his nagging guilt; the fingers playing idly with the hair at his temple notwithstanding.

“It was a tempting offer the first time you extended it to me, nevertheless, you already know my answer,” Ignis turns his head inward toward the man lying at his side, staggered only briefly by an abrupt kiss to his lips that deposits a residual smile.

“It’s alright,” Noctis says, jostling the mattress to and fro as he crawls haphazardly over Ignis’ legs to perch at the edge of the bed. “I know you _want_ to.”

Ignis can almost picture the smirk.

Noctis has grown accommodating with his age, regardless of how such transitions came to pass, and he can be heard hurrying to his kitchenette to ready a pot of coffee to Ignis’ desired strength, all as Ignis strides rather confidently to the armchair across the room where his clothes from the day prior neatly lay. The clothing he’d worn to bed, well…he couldn’t much account for them.

They chat amiably as Noctis fries eggs, poorly, despite Ignis’ attempts to lend a hand. After a modest breakfast, they make their way to Ignis’ floor at his gentle urging in order to take stock of Cid’s state of wellness overnight. Emerging from the elevator, Ignis can immediately sense something is amiss based on Noct’s change in demeanor. He sucks in a breath, tapping Ignis on the shoulder before quickening pace down the familiar corridor.

“Something the matter?” Ignis responds to the touch tensely, trotting down the hall to keep up with Noctis. His stomach lurches at grave thoughts as they reach the end of the hall, Ignis colliding with Noct’s extended arm and stuttering inelegantly to a stop.

“Shit, he’s out,” Noct curses, tugging Ignis down to his knees just outside the threshold of the door.

Ignis reaches forward straightaway, not having to search for long before his hands find the old man’s brittle frame, right about the collarbones, as he seems to have collapsed on his way out.

“ _Damn it all_ , what were you thinking, you stubborn old fool?” Ignis gripes through his blur of sinking feelings and shot nerves, hoisting Cid up with Noct’s help to cradle him in his lap. He finds his wrist to check his pulse as Noctis seems to touch at his face, perhaps feeling his temperature at the forehead. “He’s breathing.”

“Why does he look like this, Ignis?”

Ignis pauses, hearing the way Noctis inhales sharp as if he could somehow suck the words back into the unfortunate place from whence they blundered.

“I’m assuming you mean his color, or lack thereof, and his weight.”

He knows Noctis meant little by it, but he hangs his head just the same, if for no other reason than to hide the latent distress that such comments still had the power to leave behind, typically in the form of a line between his thin brows.

“Yeah, I mean…he looks even worse than—”

“It’s the sickness—Noct, help me get him inside,” Ignis pulls Cid upward gingerly under the arms, guided into the room and the nearby futon with the aid of Noctis’ eyes. They deposit him sitting up and by that time he grumbles and stirs, seeming to come back to consciousness incrementally.

Ignis commands Noct to sit beside him and use a magazine as a fan to waft air over his feverish skin, leaving them both momentarily to retrieve Cid’s medication from a cabinet in the kitchen alcove.

“What’s the matter with him, Iggy?” Noctis calls from the futon, the sound of cheap paper flapping in his grasp.

“The answer is a bit of a mystery, all things considered. From what we can tell, it’s a strain of Starscourge that emerged after your disappearance. It progresses slowly, however…”

He kneels at Cid’s side, sitting a single pill and a tall glass of water upon the table beside the futon before resting a hand at his gaunt thigh and turning to face Noctis.

“…it progresses nonetheless.”

“ _Starscourge_ , you said? How is it different? How did he get it?”

Ignis shakes his head, an expression on his face that reads nothing short of hopeless.

“All we can do is infer. My… _limitations_ hinder any attempts to delve deeper into the nature of it. We simply have no information, and no means by which to gather it. It’s likely his obstinacy is to blame.”

“What’s that mean?” Noctis still waves the magazine lazily, the air shifting little hairs at Ignis’ forehead.

“He stayed at Hammerhead much longer than anyone wanted him to, particularly Cindy, and the only thing that seems to have any sort of causal relationship with the illness is exposure.”

“Hunters get it?”

“Not only, but a higher percentage of any persons that roam the borderlands seem to fall victim. That said, many wander beyond the border and never suffer so much as a symptom.”

Cid jerks, head lolling to the side as he groans, lifting an arm to swat blindly at Noct’s persistent magazine. Ignis readies the drink and pill in response, expecting he may need to seize his moment before Cid slips again into unconsciousness.

“In any circumstance, it easily targets the elderly or otherwise infirm.”

A grisly sound rumbles from Cid’s throat as he coughs violently, moving slightly in his seat.

“I’m plenty _firm_ , don’t you worry ‘bout that,” he rasps, and Ignis sucks his teeth in disapproval.

“That’s quite enough,” he chides, lifting the pill to his wizened lips and holding the glass near his hand. “Take your medication, Cid.”

He complies, nearly knocking the glass from Ignis’ hand with his trembling fingers, but Noct seems to interject in order to be sure the meds hit their target. Cid is silent again after a few gulps and a sigh, and Ignis can hear the tap of the glass as Noctis sits it back upon the table.

“What exactly is this that you give him?”

“This time? Anti-seizure medication. However, in the past I’ve administered everything from simple headache medicine to prescription painkillers and damned sugar pills when desperate.”

Noctis makes a punched out sound, clearly at a loss for words.

“In short, I give him whatever I’m lucky enough to find that may offer relief. Or more accurately, whatever I can commission Hunters to scrounge up.” Ignis’ voice falters on the last syllable as he struggles with that unique kind of irrational guilt that all caretakers can likely relate to at one point or another.

“Ignis, you’ve done an incredible job, you’ve obviously given it no less than your all. He’s still here.”

Noct’s reassuring hand descends to Ignis’ shoulder, an unexpected but not unwelcome source of human contact.

“He’s still here.”

Cid suddenly moves again, catching Noctis by the arm if the tremor in his hand is any indication.

“Tell your daddy I’m sorry, boy,” Ignis can hear Cid say, and the atmosphere becomes as dense as a collapsed star. “Tell Reggie I’m sorry, about _everything_ ,” he coughs, interrupting his own pleas with heaving wheezes that force Ignis to lean him forward and rub at his back. Just as quickly as he woke, he’s out again, and Ignis shakes his head, totally aghast.

“I’m sorry, Noct—”

“What do you think he meant by it?” Noctis asks before Ignis can offer explanation, the odd strain in his voice not unlike the twist of a knife to the heart.

“Nothing, Noctis. _Nothing._ ” He extends a wary arm in Noct’s direction until fingers brush against the cloth of his shirt, lowering his palm heavy on Noct’s thigh. “He’s not often lucid any longer.”

\---

Over the following days Noctis prioritizes getting to know the people, intent upon expanding his knowledge of the area and taking every opportunity to aid the Hunters in their excursions. No amount of well-intentioned scolding could keep him from hopping into the back of a truck bound for Hammerhead or another nearby outpost, and each time he ventured out and left Ignis behind to man domestic priorities, he’d return to a somehow _more_ impassioned welcome than the ones prior.

Ignis warned him often; offered to tag along when Noct would kiss him on the forehead or over the jagged scar of his brow, reiterating how badly he was needed here in the city by Holly or Cid. Or worse, he’d guilt trip Ignis into staying put so that there was something for him to think about as he toiled in the oppressive darkness. Something for which he could return home.

On a fortuitous evening that they found themselves equally uncommitted to the public, Noctis suggests they take a walk about the city. In spite of the humidity, Ignis had come to enjoy their late night promenades, basking in the little selfish satisfaction of being seen in a rather intimate light at the King’s side. This excursion is no different than the others as Noctis links their arms, leading them from the Leville with a kindly “good evening” to the hospitality.

“You look nice today,” he says warmly as they descend the steps and make their way toward the city’s center.

“Oh? I haven’t done anything different,” Ignis replies, touching his visor and his hair as though to confirm that they’re all still in place. The compliment makes him flush like a bashful child anyway, knocking him enough off kilter that he forgets to say his thanks.

“You’re wearing the shirt I brought home for you. From that lady tailor, the one not far from the diner.”

“Ah,” Ignis catches himself, bringing his free hand to rest gently on Noctis’ bicep.

_That’s right._

“So I am. And you chose well, it fits like a glove.”

“I’ll say,” Noctis responds affectionately, drawing a squeeze from Ignis’ long fingers.

“ _Charming._ ”

Noct laughs and they both fall silent for a few moments as voices rise and fall, melodic around them. It isn’t too busy in Lestallum at night; not this late at least. The street vendors have since packed everything in and retreated to their various hovels, leaving behind only wandering Hunters and those still somehow romanced by the stars. Perhaps it’s simply solitude they seek. Ignis can sympathize, preferring the late night, when the city isn’t thick with a blanket of spice and sweat and shouting, and the air seems clean, almost as if monsters _weren’t_ clawing and slavering just outside their door.

“So, how’s everything going on the food front?”

Ignis sucks his teeth, a little displeased sound he hadn’t meant to loose.

“To put it frankly, I hope everyone is still quite alright with a diet primarily of fish. Attempts to grow plants of any kind are perpetually fraught, and the yield is woeful this time round.”

“Hunters still can’t bring back edible meat?” Noctis asks, dubious.

“Meat of what unlucky creature? Daemons chase away or otherwise mangle what mammals are left. Life has long since fled from this area, and what small game remained has been hunted down to naught. The seas are less blighted by the daemons, it seems. Though finding a safe spot to fish and the time to do so is asking quite a lot of a huntsman. And there’s always the looming threat of _over_ fishing.”

Ignis shakes his head ruefully, sighing, considering his options.

“You make it sound dire.”

“It’s not entirely hopeless. Some of the chicks born since the night fell are proving to be useful. Chocobo eggs are edible, yes, and we’ve tried to make something of that, however they’re just as valuable bred as mounts as they are served alongside Leiden potatoes.”

Noctis chuckles then, lightheartedly prodding Ignis with his elbow.

“Gonna start breeding chocobos?”

“Heavens, no. Folly, that.”

“Folly? Thought you just called them valuable.”

“Of course they are, but we haven’t the space for them, nor the means to generate light enough to illuminate the areas we might build stables. It’s only a matter of time.”

Noctis makes a noise, a grunt that sounds something like begrudging agreement, and silence envelops them yet again.

“You’d be a cute stable boy,” Noctis teases suddenly, and it forces a snide hoot from Ignis’ throat.

“I’ll leave the dirty work to the eager. Wouldn’t dare step on Prompto’s toes over the matter.”

They make a turn toward the EXINERIS plant as Noct comments on his desire to see the glow of the meteor, showering Ignis with heavy praise over the scent of his hair or his cologne, more amiable than Ignis could ever recall.

“It’s nothing special, just a product I discovered thanks to a trusted vendor. What have I done to merit all this unmitigated praise, might I ask?” Ignis’ heart rate elevates just a bit as they climb the many stairs to the plant, leaving most noise that rises above the level of ambient at their backs. The constant thrum of the plant can be heard more clearly with each stair; a visceral change in environment that Ignis had no idea would precede a similar shift in tone of conversation.

“Watch your step,” Noctis murmurs, tugging Ignis’ arm to keep him from wandering too near a steam spewing manhole cover.

Ignis leans into him, taken aback by how relaxed he’d become, how unguarded as he was led graciously through what is supposed to be a familiar city by a man he was meant to be serving. He’s punch-drunk by the feeling, realizing that these walks with Noctis may very well signify the first moments in many years that he’s been able to experience vulnerability without an undercurrent of fear. Noct’s steadying arm strips him of the need to be constantly aware, constantly tense, listening, ready. It takes him so much by surprise that a knot forms in his throat and his brow knits above curiously burning eyes.

Noctis stops them abruptly after a few more ascended steps, exhaling heavily in the direction of the plant.

“I really wish…that you could see this, Ignis.”

Ignis swallows hard, his gaze cast down but still in Noct’s direction. His eye searches, unseeing, for threads in a jacket only inches away, for the rise and fall of a chest whose subtle breaths he can hear with his own ears. There’s a stinging in his eyes to match his heart, and he blinks it away as Noctis seemingly stares at the meteor in its entire glowing splendor.

“As do I, my love.” Ignis’ voice falters, growing hushed. He clings to Noct’s arm with both hands, tightening his grip, running one down along the length of his forearm to intertwine their fingers. “ _As do I.”_

The gesture rouses Noctis from reverie, as Ignis can sense that he turns to face him, can feel the warmth of his breath as he places a hand upon the high set of Ignis’ cheekbone.

“ _Hey_ , I’m sorry…” Noctis atones, tilting his head upward so that their foreheads meet. “Are you okay?”

Ignis rests his palm on the back of Noct’s hand, a meek smile playing at the curve of his lips.

“I’m quite alright.”

Noctis hums genially as he draws away, letting the hand at Ignis’ face drop to cover the hands still interlocked at their sides. There’s the scuff of shoes against concrete as he fidgets on his feet, clearing his throat in a way that made Ignis a touch uneasy.

“Well, that’s good because,” Noctis sighs, and with it Ignis draws in a breath and holds it, waiting. “I’ve got something to tell you. And I know you won’t like it but it’s really not a big deal, so don’t get mad, okay?”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence,” Ignis responds wryly, his expression already screwing into a look of displeasure.

“ _Ugghhh_ , Igniisss, don’t look at me like that already!”

“By the Six, Noct, just say your piece.”

Another sigh from Noct, followed by some flat out dithering.

“ _Noct—”_

“Okay, okay, I’m going out with the Hunters again in the morning.”

Ignis can’t help but react with a deep breath and a roll of the eyes, straightening his spine in such a way that he appears to be repulsed by very idea of Noct leaving the safety of the city walls yet again.

“ _Already,_ what in Eos is the matter now?”

“It’s the outpost at the cell tower. They’re having too many technical issues with their generator and need substantial backup to replace it.”

“ _Absolutely not,_ Noctis, the cell tower is miles beyond the reasonable borders. You may as well travel beyond _Hammerhead_ while you’re at it.”

A placating hand grasps at Ignis’ shoulder, keeping him still as if Noct is fearful he might wander off into the night in discontent.

“ _Iggy…”_

Ignis swats away his hand, but it returns to its chosen post instantly.

“Don’t _‘Iggy’_ me, you can’t keep putting yourself at risk, not when we still have Insomnia to contend with.”

“It’s already done. If the generator fails, the spotlights fail, and all those Hunters die. Not to mention we lose operation of the tower, and without phones I doubt the going will be easy. Do _you_ wanna go without yours?”

Ignis huffs out an exasperated sigh, shoulders sagging with the weight of it. To a degree he knows he’s being dramatic, and yet by the same token, there are many able bodied men and women suited for the task and Noctis is simply too valuable to willfully put in peril.

“I am more than averse to the idea, I think you well know.”

“I do. But you’ve said yourself that I’m their King. What kind would I be if I wasn’t willing to get my hands dirty to protect them?”

Ignis begrudges the smile that surfaces automatically then, knowing it won’t be lost on the stalwart Noctis, somehow deep down still angling for his approval. He only hates that he cannot tag along, can’t even offer on such short notice without proper care arranged for Cid. The pride that wells from someplace deep within is gratifying in its own right, and Ignis senses by the way that Noct tightens his grip on his hand that he knows how Ignis feels.

“You forgive me, then?” Noctis asks, stepping forward into Ignis’ space, cheek to cheek as an arm wraps about his waist, fingertips flirting with the shirt tucked at the waistband of his slacks.

Ignis skims a hand across Noct’s back, resting it lightly on a shoulder blade. The soft tugs at the folds of his button down are teasing, light brushes of faint pressure like whispered promises beneath fresh sheets. It halts his breath.

“Perhaps I can be persuaded,” Ignis says, tone low and unintentionally sultry, uncertainty bubbling to the fore when Noct latches onto his neck, fisting his shirt and wresting it from trousers.

“ _Noct!”_ Ignis yelps, both hands darting to Noctis’ shoulders, sinking fingers into them. Despite his alarm, he stops short of pushing him away; gritting his teeth at the sharp little pain that meant Noct is sucking too hard. “Have you lost your mind?”

Prying himself away, Noctis surprises Ignis yet again with a kiss, biting mischievously at his lower lip.

“I’m persuading you.”

“So I gathered, however I certainly didn’t mean to do so right this second,” Ignis labors to remain calm, his heart already thundering in his chest and his blood running hot in response. Noct’s attention never ceased to render him thus, and with each passing day Ignis seemed to be growing weaker to it as opposed to more resistant.

“Yeah, I don’t exactly believe in _waiting_ anymore,” Noctis declares, and his voice has taken on that dense tone erstwhile reserved for the comfort of the King’s bed.

Ignis chokes out myriad protests rather half-heartedly as he’s pulled in some random direction, eventually aware that he’s near a wall as his right hip bumps clumsily against scaffolding, hard enough to likely leave a bruise. Ignis throws out an arm for balance, his palm making contact with brick and splaying open as Noctis hooks both hands into the front band of his slacks and kneels.

“ _Noctis_ , get _up_ , have you gone mad?!” Ignis’ untasked hand gropes at the scaffolding, finding a bar at about the height of his head to cling to as his gaze darts left to right like a frightened bird, listening as intently as could be managed given his somewhat frenzied state.

“You worry too much,” Noctis claims nonchalantly, unfastening Ignis’ fly and tugging the center of the pants down with a quick snap. He’s met with an already hard cock straining against the burden of cloth, so without much hesitation he wrenches it free from the gap in Ignis’ briefs. The sudden exposure to open air and the warmth and pressure of Noct’s palm force a beleaguered inhale through teeth from Ignis, and little time is wasted before the drag of a wet tongue can be felt as well.

“ _N-Noct,”_ Ignis stammers, categorically slain by the time that tongue reaches the tip of his cock and darts into the slit. “For the love of the Astrals, someone may s- _stumble_ upon us and, _ah—”_

That thought and any remaining are all cut short by the wrap of simmering hot lips as Noctis sinks onto his cock, burying his nose in the soft fabric of underclothes when he takes Ignis to the hilt. Every centimeter is somehow more satisfying than the last, the heat and tension in Noct’s throat a thing of frightful beauty. Ignis is already laid waste by it, a fact that appalls him as he tingles from the base of his spine up with a numbing dread that a dozen eyes may already be fixed upon them.

He mewls his King’s name pitifully as Noctis alternates between swallowing around his length and simply bobbing up and down upon it, lips dragging and teeth occasionally grazing just enough to drive Ignis almost completely insane. A clatter not far from them punches a terrified whine from Ignis’ lungs, and his self-conscious jostling gags Noctis enough to throw him off. The sound that he makes when he slips Ignis’ cock from between his lips in order to chide him makes Ignis groan.

“It’s nothing, just a rat or something, can you calm down?”

His hand still massages purposefully as Ignis heaves over him, palm still pushing with all might into the brick wall as his head hangs between his shoulders.

“I’m….I’m sorry.”

“Do you want me to _stop?_ ” Noctis asks, giving a long, tight pull on Ignis’ cock as he exhales warm against his cooled skin, causing him to sag helplessly at the pleasantness of it all.

Eyes clenched shut, face flushed, brow as knitted as could be, Ignis shakes his head ‘no’ despite his better judgment. Despite even his worst judgment, in reality.

Noctis doesn’t respond, doesn’t even pause, only makes a satisfied sound as he lunges forward to claim skin and salt yet again, tongue adhering to the curve of the underside of Ignis’ cock as he sucks him without quarter, intent on bringing him over the edge as quickly as possible.

The sounds are a sin wrapped neatly in an absolutely breathtaking box, they’re too much, he can’t listen for encroaching footsteps over the slurp of Noct’s tongue and the delighted moans reverberating from his throat and straight through his shaft. Before Ignis knows it he’s leaning in, the hand at the wall somehow tangled in long hair, hips stuttering forward as a strong hand grasps at the lip of his pants just above his ass. His breaths are sharp and shallow, eyes rolling back into his head and he can _feel it_ , can feel his lust reach critical mass just as Noctis presses him forward at the back and holds, seating him as snugly in his throat as he possibly could.

“ _M-Majesty, I—please!”_

Ignis yanks at Noctis’ hair in a last ditch effort to liberate him from the impending onslaught, but Noctis growls and digs nails into skin, and by then it’s far too late.

Ignis exhales as he comes, white knuckling as Noctis swallows him down completely, neither hesitating nor spilling a single drop. Both hands he places on either of Ignis’ hips as he pulls off, a final, languid lick to his length serving as a parting gift before he tucks him back inside his clothes and zips him up.

“You might actually be mad,” Ignis pants, leaning against the scaffolding as Noctis rises, still buckling him up and resetting his shirt at the hip.

“I can live with that,” Noct laughs, pressing his lips to Ignis’ until they part and he can share with him the taste of his more depraved passions. He draws back slowly, keeping their chests pinned close, close enough that Ignis is sure he can feel the beating of Noct’s heart. “So long as I’m forgiven.”

Ignis clears his throat as he runs his fingers through his tousled hair, not even trying to rebuff his smile.

“Only fools hold grudges.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please prepare for next chapter to be Noctis POV.
> 
> As is tradition, kudos appreciated; comments lusted after :3c


	4. With All Appliances and Means

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now each visitor shall confess  
> The sad valley's restlessness.  
> Nothing there is motionless  
> Nothing save the airs that brood  
> Over the magic solitude.
> 
> The Valley of Unrest, excerpt (Edgar Allan Poe)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noctis POV.
> 
> (thank you so much if you're returning after what was a very, very long wait.)

Noctis rouses himself slowly the following morning, stretching long and taut every limb and muscle before wrapping an arm around Ignis, still slumbering soundly on his back with head tilted on the pillow so that his scarred eye is upturned. These dark mornings remain very strange, even as time has passed, and he’s not sure he’ll ever entirely grow accustomed to them. He gazes at Ignis for a short while from his own pillow, silhouetted prettily by the bit of blue light that spilt in from the far window thanks to the spotlights, unintentionally synching their breaths as he watches the silent rise and fall of his chest.

Reluctantly, he inches from the bed as courteously as possible to throw his fatigues and boots on for the day, opting not to start a pot of coffee in case the smell should wake Ignis from his rest; rest he certainly _earned_ that night, and that Noctis wishes more than anything he could continue to indulge in. He preps himself a meager breakfast at the kitchen island, stealing glances across the suite as Ignis stirs beneath the sheets, long legs folding as he rolls onto his side. Noctis smiles, keeping his steps as quiet as possible as he pads across the kitchen to the breakfast nook tucked against the window not far from the living area. The suite has an open floor plan which made things a great deal simpler for Ignis in a practical sense while simultaneously complicating situations such as this.

It’s not until he pulls his leather jacket over his shoulders and turns to the door that he hears a soft whimpering from across the room as Ignis awakens, rising up onto his elbows.

“Noct,” he calls out groggily, voice low and broken by sleep. “Are you still here?”

The hint of distress in his tone warms Noct’s heart despite his attempt to slip away undetected. He strides over to the bedside, bending to press a kiss to Ignis’ forehead after sweeping a few strands of hair from his path with his knuckles.

“On my way out now, Iggy. Overslept.”

“Let me walk you to the lobby,” Ignis rasps, lifting up onto his hand and grasping at the sheets with the other as if to slide from the bed.

“No, stay,” Noctis steadies a firm hand on his shoulder, speaking in drowsy tones in an attempt to lull Ignis back to sleep. “It's still early. I'll be back before you know it, just rest okay?”

Ignis stills, blinking lazily as he slumps back onto his elbow. He is nothing but long limbs and gentle temptation wrapped cozily in their sheets, but Noctis tears his gaze away just the same, fleeing the seduction of a soft bed and warm skin before he buckles under the pressure.

“You'll be careful,” Ignis asks, but it comes out a little more like a command.

Noct’s hand is on the door handle when he pauses, smiles at the figure half obscured by shadow.

“I'll be fine, Iggy. Don't worry.”

He pulls the door open and shuts it behind him after stepping into the hall, leaning his weight momentarily against it as he squints to accommodate the warm glow of the hall lighting.

_Love you._

_\---_

To Noct’s surprise, there’s a bit of early morning bustle in the lobby, and he must have been less alert than he thought because he nearly misses Gladio in his periphery, leaning steadfast against the rail at the foot of the stairwell.

“Hey,” he drawls as he turns to bar Noct’s path, arms crossed and shoulders square.

“Ah, morning,” the King replies, side stepping before coming to a wary halt. There’s something in the way Gladio holds his frame that makes it clear he meant for this exchange to happen this way, at this precise moment.

“You’re going?”

Even Noct’s customary morning grogginess does little to veil Gladio’s meaning, so he nods in response, scanning his friend and shield with a fast flick of the eyes. He’s still in a tank and sweats, not dressed for the day, obviously not intent to skip along into the darkness alongside him, which for the moment Noctis is a bit relieved over.

“Yeah,” he says finally, scratching the back of his untidy hair a bit awkwardly despite the straightness of his spine and the forwardness of his answer.

“Wish you woulda told me, since it’s kinda my job to look after you and all,” Gladio raises an eyebrow and twists his mouth into a rueful half smile. When Noctis exhales, it’s accompanied by laughter he hadn’t meant to loose, finding comfort in Gladio’s apparent disappointment. It definitely beat the hell out of the alternative and oft expected admonition.

“It came up fast and I didn’t want to worry anybody. There’s plenty of backup and Dave is in charge on this one. No big deal.”

Gladio holds the expression for a brief moment before he breaks their eye contact, a physical marker for the subsequent change of subject.

“I promised to help Iris with some other daemon related _issues_ , anyway. Figured it’s gotta be a big deal if she’s asking for help at all, let alone _mine._ ”

“True,” Noct agrees, starting to grow restless, the need to make it to the departure point before much more time passes like an itch at the back of his neck. “Well, if you’re not coming along or anything, it’s cool. I gotta get going, though. I shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

“Right. Kingly responsibilities and all that. Speaking of which, I wanted to talk to you about the Ardyn situation,” Gladio presses, arms unfolding and hands finding a perch on each hip.

_“Now?”_

“Well obviously not _now._ But soon. We need to get our information straight and start trying to plan. I know it’s a lot to think about but…you should definitely keep your eyes open when you’re out there. For anything strange, any data we can use.”

If Noct was anxious before, he’s downright confused now, blinking several times before shaking his head.

“Like what? You mean like, tomes?”

“I mean _whatever_. I keep hearing things from hunters and merchants, too much to tell now but it needs to be addressed. Just be careful today and keep your eyes peeled. _Your Majesty._ ”

Gladio tips his head Noct’s direction before sauntering past and up the stairs, leaving an unwelcome and altogether distressing cloud of questions in his wake. What _things_ could he be hearing of Ardyn by the people of Lestallum that Noctis didn’t already know?

 _Don’t worry about it now,_ he thinks as he continues his exodus from the Leville, grasping again for his focus on the task at hand while pocketing Gladio’s potential warning for the future.

It’s characteristically humid outside as Noctis makes his way from the Leville to the main street, cutting through a narrow alley to see a utility truck not unlike Talcott’s come into view. A few hunters packed it and a smaller vehicle parked behind with duffels and weapons. He recognizes just one of them, the other two looking a little young and wet behind the ears as Dave shouts orders from the curbside.

Before he makes it to Dave, he's startled by the sound of hurried footsteps at his back as a familiar voice calls out from behind.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Aranea chirps, sounding a little too upbeat for the rude hour. She stops just short of Noct’s side, hip meeting an open palm as he half turns to meet her gaze.

“Hey. You tagging along on this one too?” Noctis asks with a crooked smile, suddenly uplifted at the welcome prospect of an extra pair of well-trained hands. He wasn't fearful of this new world necessarily, but anyone with experience out in the pitch only served to boost his confidence in the success of the mission.

“Work is work, right?” She cocks her head to the side, and something behind her eyes betrays her. She isn't exactly an accomplished liar.

“No money in this gig, though,” Noctis replies with a prying grin and a sharpened stare. To Aranea’s credit, her eyes never part from the King, but the anxious shove of a boot into the asphalt gives her away.

“Let's just say I'm doing it for a friend, eh?”

Noctis nearly frowns but catches himself, instead allowing the realization to knit his brows together.

“He sent you to babysit me.”

She responds by the tap of a toe and the crossing of arms over her chest, running her tongue along the row of teeth tucked behind pursed lips. She certainly studies Noctis like an irritated teen would a toddler.

“Listen, I'm not saying you deserve it or anything, but he waited for you, ya know.”

Noctis expels an annoyed sound, masking it with an entertaining tone to his voice.

“What's that supposed to mean?” He spares a sideways glance toward the hunters who seem to have slowed their pace. Aranea pays them no mind, but her next words come out noticeably hushed.

“I mean what I said,” she steadies the lance at her back as she releases the air from her lungs, curving wide around Noctis as she makes for one of the trucks. “I looked out for him for ya. You can thank me later.”

He's behind her now, but she pulls the slotted mask over her face before heaving herself up and onto the truck bed. Looking over her shoulder, she winks, or at least Noctis _thinks_ she does behind her aged but well maintained armor.

“ _After_ you take care of that jackass in Insomnia, of course.”

\---

Noctis rides in the passenger seat of the utility truck with the most precious cargo; the replacement generator. Though the trip to Rydielle Ley is one of the longer that convoys typically have to make, the troupe only has to pull over once to deal with a single Ganymede upon emerging from the tunnel leading north of the city, and even that goes providentially without a hitch.

From afar, Noctis can see the brilliant light of the small base as they approach, dappled by red and white glowing points from other contraptions or spotlights, he assumes. It isn't too far off road, all told, tucked behind a water tower and taking advantage of the fact that approaching vehicles would already carry with them a halo of safety brought on by their daemon warding headlights. He watches, distracted, as his driver explains the layout of the little outpost and the way they've structured the guard duties. From what he could tell, two keep watch at the front while another two walk the perimeter, needing minimal aid as what would be the back of camp is nearly flush against the rock wall of a range of mountainous rock formations. The primary spotlight is more than enough to illuminate the entire fenced and barbed wired area, rock face included, despite the distant anxiety of having a half dozen bombs glowing only just outside the reach of the glare.

They drive single file straight through the gnarled break in the crash barriers along the roadside, kicking up dirt even as they slow to the pace of a leisurely jog. Noctis can feel the knot in his stomach subside the closer they get, until finally the group comes to a halt not far from the tower itself. A handful of heavily armored hunters take a few steps into the glow of the truck’s high beams, eager to see exactly what or who awaited them in the vehicles. By his estimation, it seems a solid outfit save for the fact that there are two technicians strapped at different heights to the cell tower, clearly performing maintenance about which Noct knew precious little.

He’s met with weary but genuine smiles and greetings from the half dozen or so hunters patrolling the perimeter, inside of which several sturdy tents sit in two tidy rows. As Noctis would soon learn, they house artillery, supplies, and the hunters themselves seeing as their shifts can last several weeks, particularly if other stresses and strains on the city require good hunters to be thrown elsewhere into the night. Placed strategically between the tower and the tents, the generator is a tangle of wires and cables of varying sizes, humming strenuously as it labors to churn power to all the different destinations of all the different cords. To Noctis it’s the only thing on the base that looks precarious and unwieldy and poorly planned, despite the fact that it is responsible for their safety and presence there; willing them all forward not unlike a beating heart.

Dave exits the truck carrying Aranea and some other supplies to lead Noct into the nearest tent, its canvas awnings flapping in the steady wind that fills the air with a ceaseless howl, ebbing and flowing rather ominously. It wasn’t enough to drown out the hissing and gurgling of the daemons sprawling up and out from the dirt one by one, as if lacking interest in suffering their own dimension any longer.

The briefing with the leader of the outpost, or ‘chief,’ as they’ve come to be called by other hunters tied to specific outposts, proves to be short and straightforward. She’s a tough and pragmatic woman draped in leather and threadbare cloth, a hunter of the First Order, like Dave; those who hunted prior to the fall of night, as opposed to those who took up the mantle out of necessity.

“There’ll be a little risk involved, seeing as we’ll need to convert power in shifts. Keep the daemons off our tails. Can’t have half the base going unlit.”

She sits cross legged behind a low table with worn ledgers and schematics strewn across it, flanked by a few crates and pillows as she takes a long, drawn out pull of her pipe. Where anyone is able to procure anything for smoking these days is beyond Noct’s ability to comprehend.

“We’ll help back up your forces on the perimeter during the switch. It’ll be fairly easy to pick off anything that wanders too close to the fences,” Noctis offers, knowing the extra muscle will be needed most in areas of the interior where shadows are more likely to be cast in the event of fluctuating light or worse, the sudden loss of it.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. You didn’t have to come all this way personally, and it means a lot to every last hunter on patrol that you did.”

Noctis is seated too, legs crossed in front of him and hands gripping at his ankles. He remembers to nod, to remain steadfast yet gracious, to exude the kind of trustworthiness and awareness that he knows these people desperately need.

“You don’t need to thank me, chief, it’s the least I can do.”

She smiles in response, a wily thing that cuts a few long lines into her face and imparts even more gruff charm than was already present.

“You should know, there’s gonna be the chance of…well, technical difficulty. Can’t tell ya how many times part of this base has been destroyed and rebuilt due to a power surge or a blown bulb, or hell, a greenhorn tripping over a damn cable. Always gotta be prepared for the worst out here, but I’m sure you know that.”

Noctis perceives of her knowing glance as a gesture of gratitude for years of life lost, and in so doing can’t help but brush his fingertips over the Ring of the Lucii on his right hand, flinching imperceptibly at the thought of memories still excruciatingly clear.

Shortly thereafter, Noctis walks the perimeter with Dave and a few armed hunters as the generator and other cargo are unloaded from each truck and ferried to their respective destinations. There’s a decent amount of empty space between the back of the last few tents and the rock face, likely for drilling or training of some sort, Noct assumes. Dave lays out the plans for the changeover so that Aranea and Noctis know where they’ll be posted and which hunters will have their backs in the event of an unforeseen blackout in any particular quadrant.

Not far from the long, fenced side of the outpost near the water tower, the dirt churns and bubbles, spewing pitch as a brilliant, burning blade erupts forth, a howling Ganymede following shortly behind it. Aranea literally spits through the chain links in disgust.

“You really ready for this sack of chocobo shit, King Brat?” Her arms are folded in an effort to look disinterested, and despite the helmet and raised eyebrow that she flashes Noct’s direction when peering over her shoulder at him, he can tell she’s more on edge than even he.

“Afraid of a little guy like that, are you?” Noctis answers with a haughty smile, enjoying momentarily her chagrin given her presumed duties as babysitter. She makes an annoyed sound through her teeth, like an overtaxed machine expelling steam, before brandishing the lance that rarely left her side, no matter how innocuous the task at hand.

“You would be, if you knew what was good for you. There’s no such thing as easy when daemons are involved,” she retorts, the last few words ebbing in both volume and toxicity, the result of which tugs the corners of the King’s wry smile downward.

The malevolence in the air quickens, choking any would be response from Noctis’ lungs before it could form and ultimately fail to regale its intended target. He scans the darkness as if it has become second nature, feeling the loathsome teeming of daemons in the distance like pin pricks deep within as the Ring burns righteously into his skin. Clenching fists, he shuts his eyes and breathes heavily to clear his mind; inhaling through the nose the stench of putrid air, expelling from his lips absolutely nothing. Nothing there but the magic.

Various hunters assume their posts as the designated techs dictate to two young boys, probably still teens, the both of them, exactly where to deposit the replacement generator they’d carefully lifted and toted across the outpost, under the watchful eye of the chief. It isn’t long before the techs are hard at work between the two machines, putting into action their plans to extricate this cable and that in a particular order, which fuses to trip and when, and a half dozen other things Noctis didn’t have any background in or interest in learning. Though he could see the value in it during times like these especially, he fancies himself proper with a sword in hand and ancient magic pumping through his veins.

He’s purposed elsewhere.

One of the techs suddenly hollers at the top of his lungs an order that indicates which quadrant will be at risk during the dim caused by the lag time between switching major fuses. The air itself seems to tense all around them as the sound of Hunters brandishing weapons one by one could be heard as if in stereo.

“Keep to your positions!” Dave yells from the front of camp, one arm extended high above his head.

Noctis peers over his right shoulder, back toward the area opposite his stretch of fence and near to the rock face where it is visibly darker, though the hard line of shadow doesn’t seem to breach the chain links. Nevertheless, his eyes widen and his heartrate jumps when the burning light of two bombs bursts from the ether just outside the reach of the spotlight, mere feet from the perimeter.

“They’re safe,” Aranea says reassuringly from his side, shaking him out of his harried fixation on the handful of Hunters across the way.

He turns to her finally, hair still standing on end along the back of his neck and mouth running dry with weighty anticipation. She catches his eye from between the gaps in her barbute, and Noctis can only nod slowly so that she knows she’s been heard, but the situation at hand is still a lot to process. Many, many times before she has seen things such as this, dark and primordial, hovering just outside the peripheral and threatening certain death. Noct isn’t afraid of the daemons, far from it in fact, but the thought of returning to Lestallum with the cost of lives heavy on his conscience is more than enough to leave him light on his toes.

One of the bombs rotates and flickers, ambling precariously near the fence, the span of its electrical field intimidating enough to cause the handful of Hunters in position to step back in tandem. Their awed, albeit concerned reactions can be heard clearly. After a few charged seconds in which it seemed as if the creature might plow right into the barbed wire wrapped thick about the top of the fence, it eventually floats clumsily away to knock stupidly into its partner, sending them both on a meandering path diagonally away from camp.

Aranea lets loose a relieved exhale far more noticeably than she obviously intended, sneering at Noctis when he turns to shoot a half smile her direction.

“Your hair trigger is throwing me off. Can you bring it down a notch?” she accuses, but Noctis hasn’t forgotten even after all this time how greatly she reviles daemons in particular. The spotlight sputters back to full power with an audible buzzing, so the King decides to play diplomat.

“I’ll do my best.”

The next round of switches is initiated, preceded by some orders shouted to the necessary quadrant from the chief. This series of tasks begins relatively smoothly, until a small hitch sends a single goblin tumbling out from the dark and into the confines of the camp, commanding everyone’s attention. The beast is dispatched expertly by the Hunters responsible for their corner, but the slip up diverts the remainder of the group enough that the chief sees fit to scold the lot of them.

“Keep your damn eyes on your watch! Don’t you trust your comrades?!”

Noctis is a bit taken aback until her clarification settles into his marrow, as well as every other Hunter under the sound of her voice. Distraction can’t be tolerated.

“Soon as you get busy ogling daemons that ain’t your problem, one’ll up and form right in front of ya. _Keep your watch!_ ”

From that point, the tone of the entire operation shifts to one of complete alertness and focus, the undercurrent of fear beyond palpable. It’s not that being afraid is _bad;_ if anything, Noctis has found that a healthy dose of fear keeps him from getting sloppy. But not everyone has the soundness of mind to harness it, and he can’t help but notice now just how many of the Hunters seem young, impossibly young, or as old as Dave and the chief. The thought turns his stomach a hundred times as he grinds his teeth, staring hard enough into the dark that he forgets to blink.

“What the _fuck!”_ one of the techs shouts into the open air, “what the fuck _is this?”_

Noctis barely has enough time to lay eyes on the cursing tech before a visible spark crackles audibly, sending the man surging back on his ass in pain, gripping his burned hand.

The rest happens in slow motion, the other tech standing to his full height, eyes scanning the interior of the outpost as the generator makes a noise that Noctis can only describe as _wounded._ Immediately after, the sky itself seems to flicker and whirr, until Noctis realizes it isn’t the sky at all.

_“Spotlights!!”_

The dissonant cry rings out from the upright tech’s throat, ripping through the dusk as the primary light source atop the tower fails, sending shocked feet thundering to preordained posts where backup portable spotlights were strategically placed in the event of complete systems loss. They scramble to turn them on and point them in the crisscrossing pattern that promised to bathe the heart of the camp in a protective net of daemon warding light, but it isn’t enough to keep a Ganymede from screaming up and out of the soil, the mighty swing of its blade as the creature climbs to its feet shearing a cargo tent clean from its posts.

Dave and the chief can both be heard bellowing orders from beneath the discordant yowl and snarl of daemons, but the quadrants immediately descend into frenzied chaos as the surrounding edges of camp are forced to endure darkness the little spotlights simply cannot reach. Aranea says something to Noctis before she leaps into the air, but he doesn’t hear it, he can only focus on the two techs at the generator, one still wincing in pain on the ground as the other drags him closer to the generators swathed in merciful illumination. They’re snapping back and forth at one another, almost cowering, and all at once Noctis can feel something ancient erupt within and propel him forward, long strides placing him squarely before the two young men before he even realizes what he’s done.

“ _Get up!_ ” he growls at the uninjured one, yanking him up by the shoulder. “Get _up,_ I said!”

He’s completely terrified, pupils blown wide in terror and ginger hair already a sweaty mess. It’s clear he knows who Noctis is, the title at the very least, and due to this he complies, willing his body to be still despite the trembling that threatens to yank him back down to the dirt.

“You alright?”

He nods.

“Is _he_ alright?” Noctis tilts his head toward the sniveling kid on the ground, sounding every bit as serious as the situation merits.

“H-he’ll be fine, it’s just a few small burns. He was mostly surprised, th-this is his first time at this base.”

Noct looks down at him again, absorbing now the boyishness still lingering in his features.

“You both have to fix this damn thing, and fast!” Noctis jerks him a bit by the collar and he nods energetically, biting his bottom lip.

“Of course, sir—I, I mean Your Majesty—”

“If you don’t do it, a lot of good people are gonna die today. I’ll watch your backs,” Noct is near yelling now in an effort to be heard over the clatter and blast of weapons and screams he hoped weren’t already death throes.

“You can count on me and Jesse, Majesty, I swear,” he steps back and nods in one swift motion, a respectful little gesture before kneeling between the generators and barking orders at his frightened companion.

Noct spares little time making it to the center of camp in order to whirl around in place, gathering his bearings until he finds his opening. Aranea has taken to helping a group including the chief fell the big bad near the front of camp, while various stretches along the inside of the perimeter are littered with bombs and goblins, skirting between the fence and the protective glow of the spotlights. For the most part they seem under control, as the Hunters armed with ranged weapons take aim from safety to aid the melee combatants. High above, the tower sits darkened and idle, so Noctis throws his right hand out to call upon the Engine Blade, which reveals itself merely seconds in a flurry of electric blue, before it’s hurled into the top of the tower.

The King follows straight behind it, careening almost instantaneously through creation only to explode forth from another plane just in time to snatch at the sword’s hilt, dangling precariously over a scene that is devolving ever faster into ruin. The warp has always hit him a little strangely, a little _too_ charged, as if the power of the Astrals has filled him far past the brim, but he narrows his eyes at the Ganymede across the expanse of the outpost, and in taking aim the sour stomach and burning synapses always seem to fade.

Contact with the daemon is so abrupt and utterly forceful that it crumples backward, weakened, as Noctis thrums with the strength of a guttural cry he wouldn’t have believed came from his lips if he hadn’t heard it ringing in his own ears. The chief and a handful of others descend upon the vulnerable beast at the exact moment another one roars up from the ground not a few yards from Noct’s prior position.

“ _Shit!”_ he nearly spits, catching his balance after meeting the ground hard enough to sting his feet. Aranea drops from the sky nearby, lance in her iron grip and one hand bracing the ground.

“There’s only gonna be more, they know we’re here now,” she warns, voice faltering as a bomb opposite the Ganymede’s position stretches and swells to its fullest size. “We need a plan or this is gonna get even sloppier!”

“You and I need to take care of the primary threats, the Hunters can pick off the small fries, no problem. Get Dave and the chief to split and take care of these damn bombs before we lose everything,” Noctis turns to Aranea with a determined set to his jaw, his brow furrowed, and the weight of the blade in his hand a reassurance.

“Got it,” is all she offers before she leaps again to action, leaving Noctis to warp strike the Ganymede in similar fashion to the last.

This time, though, it hasn’t been softened by the combined efforts of a Dragoon’s spear and the chief’s greatsword, so the best Noct can muster is a momentary stagger as two nearby Hunters rain down on it with a hail of bullets. It swats and growls, barely agitated but unable to assault the source, bashing the blade in its hand unintentionally into the fence, now lined with unassuming baddies too stupid to figure out how to get over or otherwise around it.

“Son of a bitch,” one of the Hunters with an automatic rifle shouts, her close shaved blond hair almost gleaming in the spotlights. “He’s gonna breach it!”

The fence already folds dangerously with the force of one impact from the Ganymede; another would be monumentally devastating, especially with the slavering creatures fit to tear straight through it. To complicate matters, the tower isn’t far from their current position, and any harm that befalls it undoes the entire purpose of the outpost itself.

“Hey!” Noctis shouts at the two Hunters from the ground, dodging deftly between the sweeping arms and inelegant stamping of the giant.

They find him rather quickly with their eyes, so he gestures to the horde piling up around the perimeter.

“Get them off the fence, I’ll get this one away from the tower!”

Realization seems to dawn on them as they look to the cell tower and then at one another, before nodding to Noctis and then darting off toward the suffering perimeter.

The open area at the back of camp isn’t far, and it’s pretty well lit, giving Noctis a place to drive the Giant toward until it can’t take the light any longer. Without aid it’ll be a difficult task even for him, so he spares the briefest thought for what he’s left waiting patiently at home as he turns the Ring of the Lucii on his finger, taking one deep breath.

The Armiger takes a lot out of him even as it bestows power; demanding more and more, pushing well beyond mortal capacity for strength and endurance. He’s sure the sight of him risks distraction as he expels light like a beacon, the weapons of his forbears orbiting him in ardent support of the Chosen descendant they ultimately begat. One by one, he takes each weapon in hand, baying wolfish as he slams into his target again and again, beating the clambering creature back into the comparative safety of the training field.

It’s trapped in a halo of illumination now, though it’s dim enough, screeching and burning, toppling to the ground with a reverberating tremor, shattering into pieces as Noctis drives down into it with arm after arm. The deed is done; the creature won’t make it any further from the tower before it breaks apart entirely in the weak artificial light, so Noctis appropriates the last of the Armiger’s strength to warp striking to the other Hunters and picking off the stragglers on the fence.

The come-down from the Armiger is almost as jarring as the start, like the free fall of a rollercoaster, and the point warp that leaves him hanging again from the tower only worsens the feeling. However, he takes those few seconds to catch his breath and scan the area, checking to be sure the Ganymede has met its end. Being that there seems to be nothing more than a bubbling pile of muck where Noctis left it, he assumes the best. The moment is short lived and bittersweet, to say the least.

There are bodies.

It was folly and wishful thinking to hope he could clean this up without a loss, but it shreds him into pieces regardless. Silhouetted by the harsh light, Noctis can still make out the chief and Dave, having met in the same corner near the back of camp, skirmishing with a particularly nasty group of bombs. Turning to the rock face, Noctis prepares to point warp to it in order to buy a better angle and a stronger impact with the enemy. In the back of his mind he’s also hoping the added effort will grant him a few extra moments to recoup precious strength sapped by the Armiger.

The blade sears through the light, burning down the center of camp, farther and farther like a rocket bound for a new world, Noctis the sole passenger. Time acts out around the warp, slowing and stretching, softening the cacophony of sounds that surround him until they are dull enough that only the beating of his own heart can be heard.

He reaches out for the weapon as reality hiccups, peers down by happenstance to see the young Hunter at one of the spotlights buckle under the ambush of a stray goblin that probably ambled between gaps in the beams. Maybe the bastard just got lucky.

The warp is already in full swing, no going back now to help, not even when the struggling boy knocks the spotlight out of formation, tossing light out into the darkness and away from the intricate web that kept them all on their last legs.

Noctis turns as the world bends, faces forward in time to charge straight out of the astral slipstream and into the now shadowy face of the formation.

It’s only due to the white hot, fragmented light of his reentry that he makes out the acrid, gaping maw of the Daemon Wall, the Engine Blade pinning its tongue to its jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is tradition, kudos appreciated; comments lusted after :3c

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE, take a moment to enjoy [this gorgeous art](https://chocobro-hijinks.tumblr.com/post/160486614434/have-you-ever-read-a-fic-so-beautiful-you-started) of the final scene of chapter ONE as graciously gifted by the astonishingly lovely and talented [chocobro-hijinks.](https://chocobro-hijinks.tumblr.com/)
> 
> As is tradition, kudos appreciated; comments lusted after :3c


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